


ADDICTED TO A CERTAIN LIFESTYLE

by sfmpco



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfmpco/pseuds/sfmpco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has escaped from hospital after being shot by Mary Watson, but after a confrontation with the Watsons back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock collapses from internal bleeding.  Can he survive, and more importantly, can he get John to forgive Mary for the shooting and for her secret life? Meanwhile Sherlock plots a dangerous gift exchange with the one man he truly hates - Charles Augustus Magnussen - in order to keep Mary safe.</p><p>A time-gap filler from BBC1's SHERLOCK "His Last Vow."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"The average time for a London ambulance to arrive is…”_ Sherlock checked his watch just as two medics ran up the stairs.

_“Did someone call for an ambulance?”_

_“Eight minutes,”_ Sherlock continued. “Did you bring any morphine? I asked for some on the phone.”

_“We were told there was a shooting.”_

_“There was, last week, but I believe I’m bleeding internally. My pulse is very rapid…”_ He started to get up but that was a mistake as he began to collapse. John and Mary rushed to support him. _“You may need to restart my heart on the way.”_

 _“Sherlock!”_ John said with alarm.

 _“John. John, Magnussen is all that matters now. We can trust Mary. She saved my life.”_ Sherlock grimaced through pain.

 _“She shot you,”_ John said tersely but quietly. He didn’t want the paramedics to hear him.

 _“Mixed messages, I grant you. That is a—“_ and the pain overwhelmed him and cut him off mid-sentence as he collapsed into the arms of the paramedics.

 _“Take him. Got him?”_ John asked, as the paramedics took over.

Groaning. So much pain. Sherlock gasped for air, not because he had trouble breathing but because the pain was so excruciating. The two paramedics placed the oxygen mask over his face as they laid him to the floor while John and Mary looked on. John glared at Mary. This was her fault. Completely her fault.

Sherlock suddenly went limp on the floor, and John quickly assisted the paramedics as they began CPR. Two more paramedics arrived with a stretcher, and they rolled Sherlock onto it, and after securing him began to remove him from the flat, all the while continuing chest compressions. John grabbed up his coat. “I’m going with them.”

“Do you want me to come?” Mary asked quietly.

“Just stay the hell away!” John said without even looking at her. When she started to speak, he gritted, “Don’t say another word, or I swear to God I will not be responsible for my actions!” He grabbed his coat and quickly left the flat.

Mary watched him go, suddenly overcome with tears of great remorse, knowing that her tears would mean nothing to the man who could not see them. It was suddenly all lost now. A new life built with a man she truly loved was gone. Why had Sherlock come in on her when she was ready to kill Magnussen? Why could he not have been anywhere else? Shooting Sherlock had been the last thing she would have ever wanted to do, but she had also not been afraid to do it. She had aimed not to hit anything too vital, but yet somehow that plan had failed.

As Sherlock had predicted, his heart had to be restarted more than once. In fact, it seemed as if it was reluctant to beat at all. As if being out of hospital and walking around was bad enough, the real culprit had been the exertion he expended in moving John’s chair back into the flat. That enormous strain alone had nearly caused him to abort his plan, and he had had to rest for a few hours before resuming his mission, but now he did not feel right. Something was very wrong. He was in tremendous abdominal pain, and the morphine he absconded from Barts was completely gone. He had nearly fainted when bending down to retrieve the bullet-pierced coin at Leinster Gardens, and it had been all he could do to climb the stairs back into the flat at Baker Street. It was only his determination to right a situation that had gone horribly wrong that kept him conscious. Mrs. Hudson had remarked how terrible he looked, but he felt even worse. He had called Mary’s shooting “surgery,” and he needed to do his own corrective surgery on the incident at the Baker Street flat. A deep wound had been opened between the three friends but more importantly between the Watsons.

John rode in the back of the ambulance. There was not much more he could do for Sherlock that was not being done, not in the ambulance that was roaring through the streets of London towards St. Barthomew’s Hospital, but when they opened Sherlock’s shirt to attach a heart monitor to his chest, John gasped at the evidence of trauma and internal bleeding – the large dark patch of deep purple skin, the tight belly. He suspected that Sherlock’s liver, which had previously been severely lacerated by Mary’s bullet and then surgically repaired, was now bleeding out, having had insufficient time to heal, and that the internal stitching from the first surgery had torn. Sherlock had managed to escape hospital less than a week after being shot, and clearly the trauma from the injury was far more pronounced than originally thought. “Don’t you die on me, Sherlock! Don’t you die again!” John pleaded as once again Sherlock’s heart stopped. John intubated him as chest compressions began once again.

Sherlock was rushed into emergency, and at that point John knew he was too emotional to help in any productive way, even though he wanted to be directly involved. He watched from a distance as the emergency room doctors and nurses worked on him, quickly cutting away his clothing, even his favorite coat. Chest tube inserted, blood poured out onto the floor and spattered in a wide pattern. John covered his mouth in horror not from the sight of blood, but from the sight of Sherlock’s blood as his heart monitor flat-lined again.

John stumbled out of the emergency area and into a corridor. The world seemed to be spinning around him, voices becoming muddled, and he had to sit down. He dug his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. “Mycroft. We found him. It’s not good. You’d better come. Barts.” As soon as he hung up the phone, he took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm himself, but he could not. With his best friend dying in emergency and his marriage in shambles, he could no longer control his emotions, and a deep sob escaped him as he gave into his tears.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson set a tray of tea on the table and poured a cup for Mary. “Everyone has a past, dear. Whatever yours is, John will forgive you. He loves you.”

Mary blinked back her tears. “No, I think it may be over for us.”

Mrs. Hudson patted Mary’s hand gently. “Oh don’t say that. He’ll come ‘round.”

The cup of tea was not a source of comfort, and although Mrs. Hudson poured out, Mary did not take a sip. It was only a pleasantry, and she felt anything but pleasant.

“I don’t even want to go home. He doesn’t want to see me. Right now he looks at me with such contempt. I can’t bear that look in his eyes. I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, but he’s the love of my life and I’ve ruined everything.”

“No, not with John. Whatever happened, he just needs time. He’s a good sort, and you two have a baby coming. He’s not going to throw all that away.”

Mary was far from convinced, but she could not stay in the Baker Street flat and finally made her way home. When she turned on the foyer lights, she was greeted with a large framed picture of her recent wedding to John. She looked away and walked past it. Everything in their home now felt like a sham, completely unreal. Everything she had tried to rebuild in her life was crumbling around her. She knew John was at hospital, but she did not know when or if he would ever come back. She fought the desire to grab a suitcase and run. Disappear. She knew how to do it as she’d done it before. It would be so easy to create another identity except for one thing: John. She loved John, and that very thing rooted her. She was tired of running, tired of hiding.

* * *

Mycroft, flanked by two agents, arrived at Barts within the hour. “Where did you find him?”

“Baker Street,” John said. It was a partial truth. That is certainly where the paramedics had come to, and John was not about to divulge what had happened at Leinster Gardens. He had no desire to blurt out to Mycroft that Mary had shot Sherlock

"And where is he now?”

“They’ve taken him up to surgery.” John said grimly. “Mycroft, I think you should call your parents.”

That made Mycroft do a double take because it meant the situation was extremely grave. “Stupid little brother. He knows who shot him but won’t tell me, and now look what he’s gone and done. Made his own situation worse. It’s always been his weakness to act impulsively.”

“What about Magnussen? Does he know who shot him?”

“If he knows, he’s not saying. I’m still not entirely sure why you and Sherlock were in his offices. Care to elaborate?”

“Business.” John said simply.

“Yes, and shortly afterwards Magnussen’s assistant sold some lurid tales to the gutter press regarding Sherlock’s supposed sexual prowess.”

“Mycroft. Your parents.” John reminded him.

Mycroft took out his phone and walked away for some privacy.

* * *

After six hours in surgery, Sherlock was moved into a private ICU to begin his recovery. Mycroft stationed two agents outside his unit. There would be no escaping hospital again until he was properly released, and that did not look like that would happen for a long time. How long no one could guess, but the agents would remain on duty until Mycroft rescinded the order. Sherlock’s surgeon, Dr. Mike Stamford, came out to give the update.

“Always nice to take a break from teaching and get back into surgery. Just sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” He said

“Tell me everything,” John insisted. Mycroft braced himself.

“Luckily for him the liver is the one organ that regenerates itself, which is a good thing since we had to remove three quarters of it. Any more and he would have needed a transplant. It was just too shredded. He tore all the stitches from the first surgery. Pretty messy, but we’ve got what’s left patched together. I really don’t want him moving around, so we’re going to keep him heavily sedated and intubated to give him some time to heal, but I’m not going to kid you. He lost a lot of blood. Went through 10 units, and they’re giving him more now. His heart nearly gave out on us a couple of times and I want to keep an eye on that. I don’t know if there’s any residual damage, but I’m a little concerned at how difficult it was to get it restarted. It’s almost as if something has taken the life out of him. He’s not fighting back. If we can get him through the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, we’ll see, but right now he’s critical to grave.”

John swore under his breath, and Mycroft accepted the news with typical stoicism, but he sighed a little. “You’ll do your best for him, then. That’s all you can do.”

“When can we see him?” John asked.

“Go home and get some rest, John. He’s not going anywhere, and there’s nothing you can do here.” Mike put his hand on John’s shoulder. “If there’s any change, I’ll let you know. Oh, and tell Mary I said hello. We should do dinner.”

“Dinner, yeah.” John said. He couldn’t say it with a smile. Mary was his least favorite subject at the moment. “Sometime.”

John couldn’t go home, at least not yet. There was someone else he needed to talk to first, and he made his way to pathology to see Molly Hooper.

Molly was just setting out the door to go home when John walked in. She could tell immediately that something was wrong. “Did they find him?”

John told her everything he knew about Sherlock’s condition and asked her to check in on him when she got the chance. “Of course,” she said, and when he left, she returned to her locker, put on her hospital ID and white coat and went to find Sherlock.

Sherlock was in a private ICU separate from the general floor by glass walls. Mycroft’s agents had already taken up residence outside the door to his room when Molly arrived, and Mycroft was deep in a conversation with the medical staff outside the room. Sherlock was hooked up to more tubes and monitors than Molly thought possible. Except for the bleeping of the machines that monitored his vitals, he seemed almost dead. Molly put on a surgical mask before entering his room. Anyone who entered his room had to wear a mask. One machine was breathing for him. “Is he not able to breathe on his own?” she asked the duty nurse who was adjusting the drip on his plasma.

“No, not at all.”

Molly gently stroked his limp arm. She was almost afraid to touch him anywhere as if the slightest touch might cause some vital to crash. He seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. She did not like seeing him in this condition, but there was little she could do for him at this point. He was in very capable hands. She bent down and lowered her mask long enough to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Don’t let this beat you,” she whispered. One of her tears dripped from her cheek to his, and she gently brushed it away.

Molly walked out of the room but then stood just outside and watched him through the glass. After a moment Mycroft walked up next to her and also looked through the glass. If he had looked at Molly, he would have seen the tears in her eyes, but he made no eye contact with her.

“Miss Hooper, I don’t believe you have ever been properly thanked by the British government.” He spoke very softly but with authority.

She startled that he knew her name. Perhaps he’d seen her badge. She did not look at him. To be addressed in such a manner at all meant that she did not want to make eye contact.

“For what, sir?” she asked.

“For your participation in project Lazarus.”

“It was my pleasure, sir. I mean, it was an honor. I was happy to do it. I mean, thank you for trusting me.” She stammered out the words.

“Still, some sort of commendation is in order. I’m certain tea with Her Majesty can be arranged at the very least.”

“That sounds lovely, but no, really. Don’t.” she insisted. “I don’t want anything. Nothing at all.”

Mycroft raised a brow not in suspicion but of respect. “I wish all my people were as discreet. If you ever think of another line of work…”

“No, she said quickly. “I love my work here, but thank you.”

* * *

John arrived home several hours later. He knew Mary was home because their car was in the driveway, and he dreaded the confrontation he knew was coming. He turned as if he would walk away. He could easily return to Baker Street and sleep in his old room. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind.

Mary was seated at their small kitchen table where they often ate breakfast, but she stood up the moment he came into the room.

“How is he?” she asked quietly.

“Not good, Mary. Not good.”

“I should go see him.”

“Why? So you can finish the job you started?” he snipped. “Put a bullet between his eyes next time?”

“John, I didn’t want to shoot him. You have to understand that.”

“Well I don’t understand it because you did shoot him, and you were bloody willing to shoot him again at Leinster Gardens, and then you threatened him with his life! I was there, remember?”

“I only wanted to protect you from the truth!”

“No, you wanted to protect your lie. It’s all deception. Even our marriage isn’t real, because the real Mary Morstan is dead in Chiswick Cemetery. Do you even really love me?”

“You know I do!” She insisted tearfully.

“Well I don’t!” he shouted. “I don’t know what’s real anymore!”

She didn’t say anything as the reverberation from his shouting bounced off the walls and faded into an awful silence.

“I want your gun. Give it to me.” He said, and when she hesitated just a moment, he shouted again. “Give it to me now!”

She pulled it out of her purse and slid it across the table towards him. He immediately removed the magazine and silencer. “I’m locking this up. You’re not to ever use it again.”

“It’s my protection.” She said.

“No, I’m supposed to be your protection.” He said angrily. “Me, Mary. You could have been honest with me, but you lied to me all this time. All these months. I could have helped you.” He pulled the A.G.R.A. flash drive from his pocket and slammed it onto the table. “I’ll tell you one thing. It ends right here. Whoever you really are, your double life is over. Do you understand me?” When she nodded in agreement, he grabbed up the flash drive and put it into his pocket again. “And I don’t want you going anywhere near Barts or Sherlock. Maybe he’s forgiven you in his weird way, but I haven’t, and I don’t know if I ever will.” He walked out of the room.

“John…” she called after him, but he put up one hand. He was done talking.

* * *

Sherlock’s parents arrived the following morning. They had cut short their vacation in Oklahoma. Only eight days before Mycroft had called them to inform that Sherlock’s drug habit had resurfaced, but they had not felt the need to return. This time, however, they had taken the next available flight back to London. By the time they arrived at the hospital, it had been nearly twenty-four hours since the surgery, and Sherlock remained heavily sedated. Mycroft went into the room with them and Mrs. Holmes took a deep sigh. Her boy, her youngest. They all wore protective masks. “Why didn’t you tell us he’d been shot in the first place?”

“Because Sherlock and I have an agreement that unless it is of the most grave nature, there are things you do not need to know.” Mycroft said simply.

“Rubbish. Here I was hoping it would be like the other time two years ago, that it wasn’t really him. Fake death. But look at my boy. Mike, who shot him? And why would he leave hospital after he’d been shot? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Mother dear, the signs have always been there.”

“What signs?” his mother asked. Battle stations.

“Self destruction. We’ve watched it all his life. It’s only been a matter of time.” Mycroft said grimly, but his mother turned sharply to him.

“Mycroft Holmes, don’t you dare say such things about your brother.”

Mycroft tensed under her reprimand. He might have represented the British government, but a cross word from his mother could still bring him under her thumb. “Sorry, Mother.”

“He’s always been the sensitive one, and you bullied him relentlessly for it, telling him how stupid and slow he was. He’s every bit as quick as you.” She pursed her lips. “He looked up to you. He still does, but you can’t see it.”

“He wasn’t sensitive. He was spoiled because he was the baby. He’s always been your favorite, but you can’t see that,” Mycroft said dryly.

“Rubbish. I don’t play favorites,” she insisted.

“I doubt you’d have rushed this quickly had I been shot,” Mycroft said.

“You two,” Mr. Holmes said calmly. “Let’s remember why we are here.”

“You’re right, Father.” She said. He had always been the voice of quiet reason. “Mike, would you give your Father and I time alone with him?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, and he turned and left them.

They took up stations on opposites sides of the bed, each taking one of his hands. His father spoke first in a quiet voice that wavered with emotion. “Sherlock, my boy, this is not your time to die. You need to fight back.”

His mother kissed his brow sweetly, then stroked his dark curls tenderly. “What your father said. Fight, Sherlock. Just fight. I’ll even do Christmas this year and we can all get together. You can play your violin for us. You know how much we like that. I’ll take you to see Swan Lake. Just you and me like when you were little. We’ll do whatever you want. Would you like that?” She kissed his brow again and stroked his cheek. “Maybe when you’re better there’ll be no more of this silly detective business. Find something nice and safe, hmm?”

Despite the prognosis that he would be kept heavily sedated for several days, his parents returned to Barts each day and kept vigil for hours, mostly in the waiting area. When Molly discovered they were there, she made certain to visit them at least once a day and bring refreshments or whatever they needed to make them comfortable.

* * *

John’s last patient left his office and he looked up at the clock. 4:30. He wrote a few notes in her online chart, then rubbed his eyes. He looked at the closed door of his office. If he opened it, he would have to walk past Mary, and it was something he now dreaded every day.

He had thought about firing her and he still mulled it over in the back of his mind. With her true identity completely in question, so were her credentials as a nurse. He had no way to prove she was or was not licensed without accessing the A.G.R.A. flash drive. He kept the drive with him at all times, and he pulled it out of his pocket and toyed with it, ready to plug it into the USB port but after a moment put it in his pocket again.

He stood up and put on his jacket, then walked out into the reception area past Mary. He did not make eye contact with her but simply said, “Barts,” as he left the offices.

He was not just at Barts to see Sherlock. He decided to take on work and pull night shifts as a rotating on-call doctor. It was better than going home, and often he did not make it home. When his shift ended he often bunked in the on-call room, then showered at the hospital before returning to his private practice in the morning. The only times he returned home were to get fresh clothing, but it was terribly awkward. Only the most clipped responses if Mary asked him anything, and she rarely did. Their communication was at an impasse. Perhaps Sherlock trusted her and had forgiven her, but John felt an inclination towards neither. He did not trust anything he thought he knew about her, and his mind reeled with conspiracies about how she had come into his life.

He wanted to hear the truth but he did not know how to get it without creating a huge row. He also did not believe the real truth would be forthcoming. He was not sure he could trust anything about her. Maybe the baby was not really his. No, he actually did not believe that doubt. He knew the baby was his, but that’s what his mind was struggling with. Everything came into question.

* * *

One week after surgery Sherlock was still heavily sedated, and he spiked a high fever indicating infection. Blood tests confirmed a high white blood cell count, and he was put on a heavy course of antibiotics. Two days of fighting the fever, however, led Stamford to take him back into surgery where a pocket of infection was found, possibly he reasoned as a result of the tiniest bit of shirt debris that had pushed inside when he had been shot.

Five more days passed. The fever had subsided almost immediately after the second surgery. Sherlock was still intubated and downgraded to critical but stable. He had begun breathing on his own, but they kept him intubated as a precaution. Even though his heart seemed stable, Stamford wanted to be prepared in case of heart attack or stroke. “I think I’d like to start easing back on the sedative and let’s get him waking up. We’ll get the morphine drip started.”

The vigil for his awakening began. Mrs. Hudson sat with him for a few hours. Even Lestrade came to visit. Lestrade kept silent, just watching, then finally left. "Damn it all. We’ll find out who did this, Sherlock." Forty-eight hours passed, however, and Sherlock had not awoken despite having been removed from all sedatives. He had now been asleep for two weeks, and despite being given nutrition through I.V., he was visibly thinner, almost gaunt. Stamford really wanted him to begin eating.

Molly took a turn at vigil after a late shift and pulled up a chair at his bedside. His machines hummed and his heart monitor blipped with each beat. She was silent for a long time although her mind burned with things to say. Finally she said, “I took my cat to the vet yesterday. Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear that. It’s not important. So what do you want to hear? It’s been quiet in the morgue. Well, it’s always quiet there, but you know what I mean. Nothing too interesting. I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry again.” She sighed and regrouped her thoughts. “I met your mum and dad. They’re lovely. They’re worried about you. We all are.”

She cleared her throat and stammered a little as if he could hear her and it made her uncomfortable. “All those things the newspapers said about you and that woman Janine. Not true, are they? I know it’s none of my business. It’s just…I don’t believe it. I know you. You’re not like that.” She hesitated again and added, “Tom and I—it wasn’t going to work. How could it ever? You know what I mean. I guess sociopaths are my type, or one at least. You.”

She laid her hand on his. “When are you going to wake up, Sherlock? It’s time. Just wake up. That’s all we want.” She squeezed his limp hand a little.

But the machines continued to whir and beep and he did not respond…or did he? When she took her hand away, she thought there was some reciprocal pressure just for a moment. She squeezed his hand again to test him. “Sherlock. Sherlock. Can you hear me? Can you try to squeeze my hand again?” There was no response. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was only her wanting it to happen that made her believe for a moment that he had responded. She released his hand and sat back in her chair. “Well, I’m just going to sit here with you for a while, if you don’t mind, and if you feel like waking up, just give me a signal, and I’ll get someone to help, but if you need to stay asleep longer, that’s okay too. Just let me know. I’ll be right here.”

Molly fell asleep in his room on the sofa in the corner, and she was nudged awake a few hours later by Mrs. Holmes who handed her a fresh cup of coffee. “Hello again, Molly. How are you?”

Molly sat up quickly, then looked over at Sherlock. No change. “Sorry, just came in to sit with him and I fell asleep. Long shift.” She sipped the coffee and thanked Mrs. Holmes.

Mrs. Holmes sat down beside her and put her arm around her. “My son Mycroft told me all you did for my boy during his two year absence. Thank you. Why don’t you come ‘round for tea some day?”

“That sounds lovely, but I really couldn’t – I mean shouldn’t.” Molly insisted. She wanted to, but she was not certain if Sherlock would want her having dinner with his parents. It had the potential to be very awkward.

Mrs. Holmes looked at her with great tenderness, and Molly felt as if she could feel that gaze right to her core. She put her hand on Molly’s cheek. “I understand. I really do.”

“Understand?”

“I see how you are with him. A mother can always see these things. He thinks I can’t see his heart, and he tries to put logic and facts and unemotional reasoning as the controlling bastions of his life, but he does have a heart. It’s like a raw, uncut diamond that has the potential for brilliance and which sometimes gives off a wondrously luminous sparkle. I’ve been waiting longer than you to see it, but I’m his mother and that’s my job. I’m just saying to be careful, Molly.”

“There’s nothing like that between us.” Molly insisted. “We’re just friends.”

“We can’t always choose whom we love, can we? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“It’s too late for that.” Molly said quietly, and at that revelation Mrs. Holmes leaned forward and kissed Molly on the cheek.

Molly got up quickly then. “I’ve got to get home and feed my cat, and I’m sure that when Sherlock wakes up, yours will be the face he wants to see.”

Mrs. Holmes scoffed. “Never has been, never will be.”

Molly left then and Mrs. Holmes walked over to her son’s bedside. She patted his arm. “Now you just ignore all that waxing I did about your heart. That’s what mothers are supposed to do.” She squeezed his limp hand. “Father’s just getting some breakfast in the canteen, but he’ll be up shortly.” She kissed her fingertips and then brushed them gently against the side of his face. He needed a shave. “What I wouldn’t have done to have you sleep through the night when you were little. Lucky if I could get three hours out of you. You always had to be busy. Always doing something. Mike could sleep but not you. Baby boy, you were my little firecracker. You still are. But this sleeping has gone on long enough. Be a good boy and wake up now for Mummy, Sherlock. It’s time to wake up.”

Even his mother’s voice could not awaken him. The vigil continued.

* * *

John kept some vigil every day. He read Sherlock headlines and stories from the paper. He told him about his new work at Barts, and he recounted all the cases they’d done that he could remember. What he could not remember he read directly from his blog. Never did he mention Mary or the shooting. He simply did not want to discuss it. When he was spent with things to talk about, he switched into his doctor mode and checked all the current data in his charts, acting as a second pair of eyes for Stamford.

At John’s request they ran an EEG to test Sherlock’s brain activity to determine if he had suffered any brain damage during the times his heart had stopped and his brain had not received oxygen, but the tests came back completely normal and in fact above normal. There was rapid brain activity.

* * *

Stamford and John walked briskly down a corridor of Barts. Mike shrugged and said, “He’s really having a hard time coming out of it, and I don’t know why.”

“Could it have anything to do with past drug use?” John asked, but he did not believe his own question. He was simply fishing.

“He’ll do it when he’s ready. Sometimes the body is so busy repairing itself that it has to shut down, and he’s shut down, but the good news is that he’s breathing on his own and his incisions are healing well. Urine output normal. CBC within acceptable ranges. No more sign of infection. Just doesn’t want to wake up. He’s stable enough to be moved out of the ICU to a private room.”

A group of eager young interns met them around the corner. “Fresh blood.” Mike grinned. “Why don’t you join us for rounds?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get back to my own practice. I’m sure there’s something like a bee sting that demands my utmost attention.”

But Sherlock was not asleep, not exactly. All he knew was that he was underwater in his own mind palace, every corridor and room flooded to the ceiling. Moving about was tedious. His coat was weighing him down as were all his clothes, but he could not get rid of them. He was disoriented, and he could not cry for help. If he managed to open a door, everything was floating, as if suspended in a vacuum, and it was completely disorganized. Windows let in filtered light. He wondered if he broke a window if the water would drain out. Strangely, he was unaware of a need for oxygen. Sometimes he thought he heard voices, but the voices were muffled and grossly distorted to the point he could not tell if they were male or female. He looked for the door he’d just opened, but where did it go? Now he did not know where he was anymore. Half dream, half mind palace. Sometimes he could hear a heartbeat and he wondered if it were his own. Each beat was like a shockwave that would push him back. Sometimes there were things in the shadows. He did not know what the things were, but they were there… and they moved, and he did not like them. He was not certain how long he’d been in this environment. Months? Years? Time seemed to have no beginning or ability to be measured.


	2. Chapter 2

He first became aware of discomfort. Something would sometimes squeeze his arm, starting off slowly and then becoming fierce. The sensation always went away but occasionally would return and he’d wait for it to cycle again whatever it was. Intermittent voices echoed. Some male, some female. Some he thought he recognized but most he didn’t. Thirst. Sounds, beeps. More talking. _Open your eyes._ The arm squeezing again. Wait it out. Relief. _Open your eyes_. Eyes too heavy. Falling backwards into darkness again.

His eyes opened hours later in the quiet of his room. The lights in his room were dim. He did not know what that meant. He did not know what day it was or what time it was. He was not entirely certain where he was or why he was there. The arm squeezing began again, and he caught his breath which in turn caught the attention of the nightshift nurse who was taking his blood pressure. “Hey, look who’s waking up. Almost done here.” He tried to speak but nothing came out. He tried again, pulling at his intubation tube.

“Don’t pull it out. We’ll get it out for you. Calm down.” Within minutes they had him cough while the tube was extubated, and he was immediately fitted with a nasal canula. That little bit of effort completely exhausted him and he fell asleep again. He awoke again two hours later and managed to stay awake for an hour. He began to put together fragmented pieces of surroundings, but the bouts of waking and mostly sleeping continued for another twenty-four hours before he felt truly alert on any level. He had seen his parents, John, Mycroft, even Molly, and he quickly had realized that he had no voice and did not try to verbally communicate. It was when he was alone with Stamford that he tried to articulate something.

Mike patted him on the arm. “Perfectly normal after being intubated for so long. I’ll have a speech therapist work with you starting tomorrow, but don’t expect to sound like the Sherlock we all know for a while. You’re going to be little more than whisper at first, then something pretty craggy before your true voice returns.”

“How long?” Sherlock mouthed the words. No sound came out.

Mike shrugged but then winked. “I’m certain faster than most of us will be ready.”

Sherlock picked up his phone and texted Mary.

ROOM 331-W. VISIT. SH

* * *

In order to help his lungs to breathe fully again, Sherlock was immediately started on breathing treatment to help inflate and open his lungs. Pneumonia was a big concern for all. It was while he was in the midst of a treatment that Lestrade paid another visit to Sherlock. “Last time I saw you, you were more like a vegetable. Glad to see you’re doing better.”

Even without the treatment Sherlock was unable to speak but he could text. The signal was poor and sometimes his text wouldn’t go through at all, making for a difficult conversation.

YOU’VE COME TO QUESTION ME.

“I do want to ask you more about the shooter, yes.”

STRANGE THING FACING YOUR OWN MORTALITY.

KNOWING YOU MAY HAVE ONLY A SECOND OR TWO OF LIFE REMAINING.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

Lestrade cleared his throat. “I don’t know. What do you do?”

Sherlock tried to adjust his body to relieve the pressure points that were constantly annoying him, and he winced, groaning with the effort. His body felt leaden, and he was weak. He took a hit of morphine, and the high calmed him almost immediately. He pulled himself off the breathing treatment and closed his eyes for a moment. Now his typing was slow, and he made a lot of mistakes, causing him frustration as he tried to correct and send. It was exhausting, and Lestrade could see how it was wearing on him.

“Look, maybe this isn’t a good time.” He said, but Sherlock motioned him to wait. Just wait.

THE BULLET HAS BEEN FIRED.

IT WILL HIT YOU IN A FRACTION OF A SECOND.

YOU CAN’T AVOID IT.

SO YOU GIVE IN.

YOU KNOW YOU ARE GOING TO DIE SO YOU LET GO AND LET IT HAPPEN.

“But you didn’t die.”

OBVIOUSLY.

Lestrade wasn’t exactly sure what Sherlock meant, but they were off topic and now he was high.

“The shooter was facing you. Did you recognize him?”

HIM? NO.

“Magnussen said you took the bullet for him.”

REMIND ME TO NEVER DO THAT AGAIN.

Mycroft echoed similar sentiments later that day. “I told you that Magnussen was not your concern, but you just couldn’t let go of your obsession. He no doubt receives death threats constantly, and that makes him very dangerous.”

MORE DEATH THREATS THAN ME?

“I’m not joking, Sherlock. He’s out of your league entirely. Consider yourself very lucky, and consider this the end.”

I SHALL TAKE YOUR DESIRE FOR ME TO CONSIDER UNDER CONSIDERATION.

“I mean it, brother mine. It’s over. Do you understand? Over.”

* * *

Bed sores were beginning to form, and he grimaced, then screamed in barely a whisper, “No! No! No! Stop! Don’t!” in pain as several attendants rolled him for the first time onto his uninjured left side. He did not like being moved, and he swore insults at all of them as they turned him although his voice was barely a whisper. Afterwards he lay trembling on his side while he fought the pain. John got down to his eye level. “Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. You’re doing great.”

Sherlock tried to blink back his tears from pain, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get a word out, and he had a death grip on the side railings of his bed. John administered a dose of morphine and watched as Sherlock’s pupils dilated and he relaxed. “That’s it. Just relax.”

He had not developed open bed sores yet, but there were places that were distinctly heading in that direction, and the areas were cleaned and, treated with silver oxide and were allowed to be in the open air. He hated being so vulnerable and so unable to be in control of anything.

Now that he was awake, he daily spent time on his side to relieve the areas of constant pressure, but for the first week of this, it was a dreaded event for him, and every day his insults and personal observations became darker, almost to the point of cruel. Nevertheless, he spent four hours daily on his side, and they were the longest four hours he knew.

There was always concern that he could still develop pneumonia, and if he coughed more than a few times in a row, his nurse was immediately at his side to check him. He tried not to cough at all for anything because it was terribly painful, but he choked often, especially when trying to speak and getting frustrated. His breathing treatments continued daily for two weeks.

The speech therapist came daily. At first he would not speak for her. There was something slightly humiliating about being non-verbal for someone who spent a lot of time speaking, often so rapidly others could not keep up. Now what sounds he did make were often unintelligible.

Stamford remained worried about possible long-term heart complications, but it was too early to tell. Everything was a waiting game, and it would be a long wait.

* * *

The constant flowers and well wishes were an issue. Magnussen published a sketchy story in all his papers about how Sherlock had been seriously wounded while investigating a case. No specific details were given, but the outpouring of sympathy was overwhelming. Sherlock was unhappy with being featured in Magnussen’s press because he knew Magnussen was attempting a power play of ownership in the way that he “owned” and dominated others through bullying. Thus began the plan to trade information to procure the files from Appledore to redeem Mary Watson’s past. Every bit of press was a taunt at Sherlock, and he knew it, but he had to find the thing that Magnussen would value the most and at the same time trap him.

Magnussen released the Lord Smallwood letters to the public in one of his papers, and there was an immediate public outcry to have Lord Smallwood arrested for pedophilia, even though the young woman in question was now an adult and did not want to press charges, nor had the two ever done anything besides exchange correspondence and chat online. Even so, the inflammatory nature of the letters took the public by storm, and Lord Smallwood was arrested shortly thereafter. Lady Smallwood did not visit Sherlock in hospital but did send him a note after her husband’s arrest saying that there was obviously no reason for Sherlock to be on the case anymore. She thanked him but there was nothing left to be done in trying to keep the letters out of the public. Magnussen had made a bold chess move, and Sherlock knew that too was a taunt, a public power play in the media.

He became increasingly annoyed with the two agents who remained stationed outside of his hospital room. “Where the hell do you think I’m going?” he bellowed in a cracked whisper at Mycroft one day. “I can’t even get out of bed.”

“For your protection,” Mycroft said dryly.

“I don’t need protection.” Sherlock groused.

"From yourself, brother dear.” Mycroft sighed.

“Get. Rid. Of. Them.” Sherlock croaked in a voice not yet returned to normal. His voice hardly carried the authority it normally had. The agents were indeed potentially interfering with a planned escape, even if only temporary. He needed to arrange a meeting with Magnussen, and he could not afford to wait until he was out of hospital to make it happen. Although Christmas was a several months off, and he was forming a plan for a dangerous gift exchange.

* * *

Molly came up to see him daily on her meal breaks. He was only being served simple foods, and she tried not to make the situation worse by bringing in a slice of pizza or a nice sandwich. He generally wasn’t interested in food, however. His appetite hadn’t quite returned, what little appetite he actually had. He often went without eating, whether by choice or because it was a low priority when he was working. If members of his family or other friends were visiting him during her break, however, she would not intrude and would return to the canteen to eat. Three weeks into his recovery, however, she took her break at an odd time, and no one was with him. He was agitated and restless.

“I’m waiting for them to change my dressing.” Sherlock groused hoarsely. His voice still wasn’t in full form. “They were supposed to do it two hours ago. Apparently went all the way to China get the supplies that are right here in my cabinets!”

“You do know they can monitor your vitals from the nurses’ station. So stop pressing the call button unless it’s a real emergency or I will put it out of your reach entirely.” Molly scolded, but then she softened a little. “I could do it for you, if you’d like.”

He thought about it for a moment, then finally resigned with a nod, and Molly quickly washed her hands and donned a pair of sterile latex gloves. She removed the sterile dressing kits from the cabinets in his room. He turned his head the other way and closed his eyes as she worked. “Not much coming out of the drains anymore, and your incision is looking really good. They’ll probably take the staples out today or tomorrow.” she said. “My stitches would have been nicer, though. Sometimes I think I should have specialized in plastics.”

“Molly, please stop talking.” He said.

“I do know how to make conversation, Sherlock Holmes. You just don’t know how to listen if it’s not all about you.” She said and he muttered a “sorry.” She finished cleaning the area and then placed on his new bandages. “If you had stayed in hospital in the first place, this never would have happened.” She said firmly. “All done.” She gathered up the old bandages and placed them in the medical waste bin, then pulled her gloves off with a snap and dropped them into the bin also.

He turned back to her and opened his eyes and after a moment muttered, “Thank. You.”

“Your Foley bag needs changing. Shall I do that too?”

“You’re not my nurse,” he said.

“No, but you’ve alienated all the nursing staff.” She moved closer to him and said firmly but quietly, “The day is going to come when you’ll be leaving this place, and you don’t want them applauding for the wrong reason, do you?”

He mumbled his discontent but knew she was right.

“Chocolate.” She added as she donned another pair of sterile gloves and began to change his Foley bag.

“Chocolate?”

“Two pounds per staff ought to make amends.”

He growled a little, but later that day he made arrangements for chocolates.

“Have they started you walking yet?” she asked.

“If I could walk, do you think you’d be changing my bag?” He snipped.

“That’s three pounds for me.” She said firmly.

But walking was a problem. After over a month of being bedridden, he certainly was not able to stand nor even push himself up to an unassisted sit in bed. Just getting help to sit up in bed the first time and dangle his legs over the edge nearly made him faint. He was still on a morphine drip, still in a lot of pain, although each day it seemed to lessen by a small degree. And so began the physical therapy. He was wheeled down to the physical therapy suite each day where he began the agonizing and arduous journey of making his body work for him again. At first only a few steps would leave him completely exhausted. He had always been very healthy but now his body was betraying him, and he was distinctly disconcerted by his inability to force himself to heal faster. And he wanted the catheter out.

“Sherlock, you have as much strength as a rag doll,” John said. “Unless you want to be weeing yourself all the time, it has to stay in.”

“I’ll just pull it out then.”

“And that will be a scream heard ‘round the world.” John said. “Leave it alone.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Actually, you are at the moment.”

“You’re a terrible doctor.” He groused.

“No, you’re a terrible patient.” John said. “If I were your doctor, I might have kept you sedated for a month. One month of not having to listen to Sherlock Holmes flex his superior intellect on the rest of us witless mortals.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, resolved to bear his fate. He watched John for a moment. “How’s Mary?”

“I don’t want to talk about Mary. Not with you.” John said.

“Tell her I want to see her.”

This was the kind of statement from Sherlock that John found completely exasperating. Why would he miss the person who shot him?

“Tell her yourself.” John said.

Actually, Sherlock had both phoned and texted Mary with the same sentiments, but he was probing. “Still not speaking.”

“Not really.” John said quietly.

“She’s not safe, John. Magnussen will come after her, and that means he’ll come after you too.”

“I really don’t care to talk about Magnussen,” John said, but John knew he was right. Magnussen was holding all the information needed to have a complete power ownership of Mary, himself, and even Sherlock, but he still did not want to talk about it.

Sherlock changed tactics. “My mother wants to do Christmas this year. Haven’t quite figured out why. She stopped doing it when wrapped gifts became little more than deduction games.”

“How old were you?”

“Three.” He cocked a half grin. “Spoiled the fun for her. But if nothing else, the food is good. You and Mary should come.” He didn’t look at John when he said it. He tried to throw off the last bit casually.

"Come again?”

“My parents’ house. You and Mary. Christmas dinner.”

“Why the hell are you talking about Christmas? It’s ages away.”

“People make plans early. So plan on it.”

“I don’t really see that happening.”

“Is she still at home when you get home? Does she still come to work?”

“Yes,” John said.

“That’s it then.”

“What’s it?”

“Still seeing and not observing.  Do you do that on purpose?" Sherlock snipped.

"Shut up!" John snapped.

"John, you’re married to a woman who has the ability to disappear and create a new identity and life and yet she has chosen not to. What does that mean?”

“You’re not a marriage counselor, and this is not your problem.” John said tersely.

“You need to forgive her.”

“Why?”

“Because it comes between us, and I can’t work with you like that.”

“You’re not going to be working for a long time, so I wouldn’t worry about that.” John said.

Sherlock leaned back with a little groan and adjusted his morphine, and John watched him. John partly wondered if Sherlock was simply playing him, but one look on Sherlock’s heart monitor showed an elevated heart rate that began to calm as the morphine flooded his system.

“Maybe I’m just not as good a man as you are, Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “You’re better.”

* * *

He was particularly annoyed that he could not get to the toilet by himself and that all sense of personal privacy had to be abandoned. However, per Stamford’s orders, he was not to engage his abdominal muscles through any strain of sitting up and pushing himself up out of a chair, but at four weeks into his hospital stay, his liver had regenerated to almost 100% and a new course of rehabilitation began. Even so, he was still extremely weak having lost muscle mass from lack of exertion.

He also was not eating much or nothing at all. “You’re not getting enough calories to rebuild your muscles and strength,” John said as he laid some packets of calorie-dense food on his bedside tray. “They give this stuff to starving children in third world countries and it brings them back from the brink. That’s where you’re headed, my friend, if you don’t start eating something significant. The goal is to get you well and back to Baker Street.”

Sherlock looked at the ingredients on the packet and wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Do you really expect me to eat this concoction?”

“Twice a day as long as you’re here plus all your regular meals. Your food can sit on your tray all day long and get cold and hard, but you’re going to eat it so you may as well eat it when it’s warm and fresh. Don’t make me send your mother in here to spoon-feed you, because I will, you know, and she would be happy to do it.”

“Oh, that is below the belt. Really low.” Sherlock groused. Sherlock made a little noise of frustration, then opened one of the packets.

* * *

As he was out of the danger zone, his parents’ visits became less frequent until he told them there was no need to visit him at all anymore, that he was fine, even though he was not. He never liked being coddled by his mother, especially when he was so physically vulnerable. So he sent them home. After all, they could Skype or Facetime if they absolutely felt the need to see him. Most of the time he ignored their attempts to reach him via those methods, and they had not quite learned to text, but he did get a daily email.

Mycroft suggested an ultra secret hospital rehabilitation facility for returning MI6 agents wounded in action and was ready to move Sherlock at a moment’s notice, but Sherlock did not want to transfer. Barts was more centrally located to his friends.

It was at this point that Mycroft rescinded the order of the two agents at Sherlock’s room, and it was also at this point that Sherlock immediately found a way to escape for a meeting with Magnussen. Bill Wiggins, dressed in hospital scrubs with a fake hospital I.D., wheeled Sherlock out of his room under the pretense of taking him to physical therapy. Instead he wheeled him out of the hospital and together they took a cab to a small restaurant. Wiggins helped get him situated at a table in the back and got his meal ordered before making himself scarce. Sherlock’s morphine drip had come along for the ride, and Sherlock was clearly high during his brief but charged meeting with Magnussen. By the time he had made a deal with Magnussen, he was feeling no pain. It was only after Magnussen left that Wiggins returned with Sherlock’s wheelchair, and they took another cab back to Barts, and Sherlock returned to his room in complete exhaustion. Now he just needed to recover enough to enact the dangerous plan he had just made, a plan to trade Mycroft’s top secret government information on Christmas in exchange for all the files at Appledore on Mary Watson. The trick would be to get the files on Mary and simultaneously frame Magnussen with the government secrets. He hoped he had thought his plan through clearly, but he also knew the morphine was interfering with his abilities. He was not willing for what happened to Lord Smallwood to happen to Mary Watson. He only hoped he could recover fast enough to keep that from happening, but his body was not cooperating. He knew he did not trust Magnussen to keep the files hidden even with the promise of government secrets.

* * *

Sherlock sat at the small table in his room trying to get through an extremely bland breakfast. He was hardly hungry, and he could only tolerate small portions. He saw Mary out of the corner of his eye and immediately looked up. It had been nearly three months since he’d seen her, three months since the confrontation at 221B Baker Street. He was surprised how much her pregnancy had started to show. She was starting to round out nicely. “John’s got an errand in Oxford, and I didn’t want him to know I came. He doesn’t really want me here,” she stammered nervously. There were tears in her eyes, and the longer he waited to speak, the harder it was to fight them.

Sherlock slowly pushed himself up to a stand with the support of his walker, and although he was not certain how long he could stand, he was determined not to sit down again. “Mary.”

Her tears spilled then. He was never certain how to deal with the tears of another person. He rarely allowed himself to feel such deep pain. It clouded his ability to find logic and reason. It clouded his observational skills.

He released the grip of one hand on the walker and started to motion her forward but then quickly gripped the walker again. His legs were starting to shake. “We will never speak of what happened again,” he said. There was gentleness and forgiveness in his eyes.

“I need to hear you say it.” she said.

“Say what?” he asked.

“That you forgive me, because I am truly, truly sorry for everything. You’re right. I should have come to you.”

He began to walk slowly towards her, and when he reached her, sweat beading on his face from exertion, he turned the walker to the side and stood before her with nothing between them. He wobbled a little and grabbed her arm to steady himself. He suddenly pulled her into a tight embrace to steady himself which caused him to groan in pain and he whispered, “I do forgive you, Mary. I will get Magnussen, and I will get all the files from Appledore that he has on you, but you have to let me do it my way. Will you promise to let me do it my way?”

“Yes.” She tried not to cry, but she could not stop her tears. “I truly am sorry, Sherlock.” She felt him kiss the top of her head.

“I know.” He pulled back a little and smiled at her. “You are growing a baby Watson that needs all your attention, and you have a husband that needs you.”

“He won’t talk to me. Sometimes I think he’s read the flash drive, and other times I just don’t know.” She said. “I don’t know how much longer John and I can go on like this.”

“Do you love him?” he asked.

“With everything.” She said.

Sherlock knew instinctively that John had not read the A.G.R.A. flash drive. If John had read it, Sherlock would have immediately known it on the first meeting afterwards. That kind of revelation cannot be hidden in the soul. Sherlock wobbled suddenly and she quickly helped him back to his bed. He groaned as he collapsed into the pillows. He adjusted his morphine to take a large hit, and as soon as he had an almost instant rush of high, he lowered his dose. He closed his eyes and let the high take him for a few moments, and then he gripped Mary’s hand. “I want you and John to come for Christmas at my parents’ house.”

“It’s a bit early to be talking about Christmas. That’s almost three months away.”

“That’s when they think I’ll be getting out of here. So you’ll come then?”

“No, seriously. Why?” she asked.

“Because I asked,” he said simply, and he closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

“You need a buffer.”

“That too.” He admitted with a slight grin.

* * *

As Sherlock continued to improve, his dependence on morphine did not, and it concerned Stamford. “Sherlock, you shouldn’t be in so much pain anymore, and we need to cut back on the morphine.”

“I’m not addicted.”

“Didn’t say you were. I just think we should try something else for a while.”

Sherlock knew that if he protested that it might only make a case for addiction, something he too was suspecting to be in the making. Also, he had to make certain his mind was completely clear for his Christmas Day meeting with Magnussen. And so it was that from that day, more than three months into his recovery, that he completely stopped the morphine pump and gave up morphine entirely. This did not come without consequences, however, as he had at times used it to calm himself or even to help him relax enough to sleep. There was not so much pain anymore as opposed to stiffness and tightness of internal scar tissue and residual soreness from the surgery. Now he found himself on the raw edge of his old personality – mind racing, agitation to be busy, and he began to crave just one more morphine hit.

He had a new determination to walk every day. He could not walk fast, and it would still be some time before he could give chase, but he walked unaided up and down the hospital corridors. Stairs were difficult, however, and that meant that returning to 221B Baker Street was an impossibility. Stamford did not want him released at all but was feeling the pressure by hospital administration to free the bed space. It was Mycroft who forced the solution. “Brother dear, the way I see it, you have two choices: convalesce with mummy and daddy or take my previous offer.”

Sherlock chose the latter and was moved to the secret MI6 hospital rehabilitation center with its advanced care. Before he arrived, however, he demanded that his violin be brought to him. He had not played for over three months, and he was itching to do so.

* * *

The old Georgian estate which had been converted into the most advanced hospital rehabilitation center in Britain did not have a proper name, but the MI6 agents who convalesced there for physical rehabilitation called it HMHH, or Her Majesty’s Hell Hole. The formidable exterior masked a facility so advanced in therapeutic rehabilitation that the goal was to make the patients stronger than they had ever been before being injured. Not only did this include physical conditioning and mental health counseling but also advanced nutritional support. Nutrition and diet had never been Sherlock’s strong suit. He ate sparingly, but when he did eat often made poor choices. HMHH put him on a strict nutritional plan as they began to rebuild his overall physical strength. He chafed at the amount of vegetative assortment on his plate. He was not a rabbit after all, he told them, and that was not his standard fare. The weekly Sunday outdoor steak grilling, however, was something he looked forward to even if he did tend to eat alone. He did not like chatter of other patients and generally did not engage with them. Communal meals in the dining hall were an enormous mental strain of filtering, and he secretly craved fish and chips from his favorite shop on Marylebone Road and could not wait to get back to London. He also discovered that his deduction skills of other patients were unreliable at best because everyone was in a highly controlled environment, and all of them were highly skilled at hiding their secrets. Their lives depended on that skill. This was to be his new home for nearly three months.

A daily regimen of strength and agility training began. All of the physical therapists were former military drill masters, and there was no insult or observation that Sherlock could hurl their way that could persuade them to abandon their task with him. In such cases, their strength and mental grit always trumped his deductive prowess. This included working with weights, swimming, and even running. Sherlock was unable to lift more than 15 lbs and definitely could not run at all when he first entered the facility, but that was about to change. He groused over the weight bearing exercises saying he had no interest in body building, and working out with a giant red ball amounted to little more than embarrassment. But there would be no slacking. It was the closest he would ever get to any kind of military physical training.

In general the patients at HMHH did not attempt to form friendships or alliances but instead kept to themselves. Whatever they did for the government was kept strictly secret, and whatever small talk did occur was inconsequential. Some patients' injuries would force them into retirement, but others were patched up and would return to an undercover assignment.

Although there were less than two dozen patients there while Sherlock was in residence, he did not make an attempt at any friendships. The injuries suffered by other patients included dismemberments, burnings, shootings, blindness, multiple broken bones. It was not a pleasant thing to witness the battle scars of the country’s elite secret service. It made him feel insignificant regarding his own injury. In one thing, however, all banded together: suffering. Only the truest words spoken at HMHH between patients were for the encouragement towards one who was struggling. Even Sherlock found himself speaking such words when he’d see the confidence of another waver in the battle to recover, and such words were also spoken to him. He knew some would remain there long after he was gone. What he witnessed and what he learned were burned deep into his soul.

While at HMHH Sherlock began to play his violin again, and the other patients liked it, even if he was slightly out of practice and stumbled through pieces on occasion. One of the patients could play the piano and sometimes accompanied him, but mostly he played by himself and plotted endlessly on how to defeat Magnussen.

* * *

Mary lay on the examining table, but her eyes were focused on the ultrasound machine as the OB/GYN passed the scanner slowly over her belly. John furrowed his brow and stared at the scan. He could read x-rays, but ultrasounds always had him a bit flummoxed, especially when dealing with pregnancy. They made him feel incompetent. “Is that a…” he started. He was about to say “boy.”

“Are you ready to know?”

“Yes,” Mary said.

“It’s a girl.”

That was exactly what Mary was hoping. She did not know what John had wanted. He’d always given a stoic answer of “as long as it’s healthy” in the early days of the pregnancy, but the silence between them was evident even in the room. She could not discern if he was happy with the news.

“Well, that’s it then.” He said briskly. He made brief eye contact with Mary. “Back to work.” He left. She was used to his silence, but today it was especially hurtful. Her phone beeped, and she dug it out of her pocket to look at the text message from Sherlock.

YOU AND JOHN. CHRISTMAS DINNER AT MY PARENTS’. SH

She did not understand his obsession with Christmas dinner. Another text.

ARRIVE EARLY. SH

* * *

Sherlock, dressed in a black jogging suit and trainers, jogged slowly on the grounds of HMHH. He stopped to catch his breath as a gentle snow began to fall. His breath clung to the air. After a moment of rest, he began to jog again, this time at a faster pace, pushing himself harder and harder until he was sprinting like an athlete. He reached the front of the building and leaned up against one of large Georgian columns to catch his breath. At the base of the column were his violin case and a small suitcase. He was packed and ready to leave.

A heart stress test earlier in the day showed he had no permanent damage from the times his heart had had to be restarted just a few months earlier. His liver was completely back to normal, and except for the abdominal scar from his surgery, one would hardly know he had ever been so gravely injured only a few months before. It was time to leave the facility permanently and resume his life in London.

A large black government car pulled up the long driveway, and the back door opened. Mycroft stepped out with a new Belstaff Millford trench coat draped over his arm.

“We don’t do presents.” Sherlock said.

“Well, your other was destroyed at hospital.” Mycroft said simply. “I thought you might like to wear it for tomorrow. You always did have a security blanket.”

Sherlock took the coat and put it on. “And you always had a night light. Probably still do.” He grabbed up his suitcase and violin and began walking towards the car. The boot opened as if on cue, and he put his violin and luggage into the empty hold and shut the door.

“So, do you wish to spend Christmas Eve night with our parents or do you wish to be returned to Baker Street?”

“You already know the answer to that. Did you bring what I asked?”

“In the car.”

They got into the back seat of the car and it began to drive away, and Sherlock opened a wrapper of fish and chips and began to eat. That was a drug unto itself.

“Should I send a car for you tomorrow?”

“Nope. Going with the Watsons.”

“I thought they hadn’t agreed to come.”

“They will.” He said confidently.

* * *

John came home early from work to find Mary not home. The house was spotless, so much so that he wondered if she had finally left him, but when he rounded the corner into the living room, he found it decorated for Christmas. The pre-lit tree, the garlands, the baubles. They really didn’t have many Christmas decorations, but all of them were on display. In the middle of the floor was a crib kit that she was obviously in process of putting together. There was also a new pram and child seat for the car. Despite all his anger from the past weeks, it bothered him that he had left her to make these purchases by herself. He had always imagined being involved with these decisions regarding his first child. He had actually wanted to do the shopping with her, but it was now obvious that he had pushed her that far away and that she was now responding as a potential single parent.

He suddenly realized that he hadn’t got her anything for Christmas, but he could see a few small gifts under the tree, and as angry as he was, he felt like a heel, especially as the shops were now closed.

He put his coat down and began to look at the crib assembly instructions. He struggled with the large pieces, wishing he had an extra set of hands, but he did eventually get it put together. Of course, it was in the wrong room, and they didn’t have the baby’s room set up since that was currently his office. Clearly there was work to be done, and he had not been doing his share.

Normally they opened their gifts on Christmas Eve but the gifts remained ignored, except for one. It was from Sherlock addressed to him. He opened it to discover a silver-framed quote in Sherlock's handwriting with the words,

_A teacher asked,_

_“What is forgiveness?”_

_The little girl answered,_

_“It is the wonderful smell_

_that a flower gives_

_when it is being crushed.”_

He looked at it for a long time as tears filled his eyes. He nearly put it back into its box, but then he stood up and set it on the mantle over the fireplace.

Mary returned shortly after John had completed the crib, and she muttered a quiet thank you, then went to put way the few groceries she had picked up at the last minute.

They ate a simple supper together with barely a word passed between them. They were both used to the silence but it never got easier or less uncomfortable. She did the washing up while he went into his office and began to pack it up. He didn’t know where he was going to put his things, but it was obvious to him that he would need to downsize. This was the baby’s room, and it needed to be readied. His university degrees, military service commendations and medals suddenly seemed ostentatious to have on display. The removal of all things was not going to be a one-night project however, but he worked at it until quite late and then went to bed. Mary was already in bed and she was turned away from him.

John’s phone beeped with a text message. He squinted in the light from his phone, then turned on his bedside light.

CHRISTMAS DINNER. NEED TO KNOW. SH

John growled and dialed Sherlock. He was not as quick on the texting. “All right, all right. We’ll be there.”

“Pick me up at 10:00.” Sherlock said. “Wiggins is coming too. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John said, and he hung up the phone and turned off his light. He sensed Mary was still awake. “Okay with you?” he asked.

“Fine.” She said quietly.

John’s phone beeped one more time.

BRING YOUR GUN. SH


End file.
